1
MELANIE
Day three. Three days of pretending, of playing a role for these clueless idiots. So far, no one has caught on to how wasted I got last night—not that they ever would. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of deception, masking my demons with a practiced smile and steady hands. That’s what makes me a pro at being a functioning alcoholic.
Abigail’s lakehouse had once been a quiet retreat, where she and Colt could escape the world's noise, but after purchasing it, she saw a greater purpose for the space. With funds from Toxic Wishes, the album that had changed everything for her, and her growing success as a songwriter for some of the biggest names in the industry, she transformed the house into a rehab-halfway home for those who had nowhere else to turn. It became a sanctuary for people who couldn’t afford traditional counseling or rehab—a place where they could heal without the weight of financial strain. The lake itself, still and reflective, became a symbol of second chances of recovery and redemption, and maybe that’s why I chose to go here instead of a luxurious rehab center. After my parents' final ultimatum–get sober or be cut off for good—I needed a place that didn’t just offer shelter but hope.
Loco’s eyes lock onto mine, unblinking. He’s waiting. “Youneed to go out?” I ask. A slight tilt of his head is all the confirmation I need. Sighing, I roll over and slide my feet into my Marc Jacobs slippers. As I make my way toward the door, the rich scent of bacon and freshly brewed coffee floods my senses, momentarily cutting through the haze in my mind. But the moment I step outside, I’m met with a wall of uniformed bodies—soldiers, standing there like they own the place.
“Hi,” The man dressed in a camouflage uniform says.
“Can I help you?” I cross my arms over my chest as they stare me down. I’m used to beautiful men. With my dad being a film producer, I grew up around them, but I never met one perfect. And that’s precisely what this guy was: perfection. I could feel my heart pumping harder in my chest the longer our stare-off lasted.
“Ya, we’re here for breakfast.” The perfect-looking man says.
Loco starts barking, and a guy behind the perfect-looking guy says, “Are you serving us today, pretty girl?” Some guys snicker behind the perfect-looking guy.
I scoffed. “What makes you think I’m going to serve you?”
“You certainly don’t look like you are here for the same reason we are, and you certainly don’t look like you are an addict?” The blonde guy says.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover. Besides, you’re not my type, Commando.”
Oohs and ahs swarm the front porch as I stare back at the guy next to Mr. Perfect.
“Funny, you say not to judge a book by its cover, but that’s exactly what you are doing to me,” the blond guy says.
“No, I just know trash when I see it, and the tattoos scattered all over your neck and forearm tell me all I need to know.”
“Trash, huh? So this trash is good enough to fight for your ass but not good enough to tap it?” The crowd bursts into laughter, and I want to slap him, but it’s only my third day here on Abigail and Colt’s property, and I am not about to start trouble.
I unfolded my arms, releasing them to my sides, and brush past the blonde guy, bumping into him on purpose.
Ashole.
“What, no goodbye kiss?” the same blonde guy calls out. Loco continues to bark behind me, guarding the house like he always does, no matter where we go. Loco hates men.
I’ve trained him well.
I walk out to my car to grab some treats that I left behind last night. When I turn back around, Loco’s teeth are the only thing I can see as he growls at the guys.
“This dog is a fucking rat. I can’t stand dogs like this.” I hear the familiar douchebags voice
That’s it.I slam my door shut. “Excuse me?” I say as I march back up the porch stairs, looking straight at the blonde guy, who looks like he stepped off a set of Beach Boys mixed with the outsiders. The perfect mixture of pretty bad boy.
“You heard me, your dog is fucking annoying, kind of like you, so move your dog aside before I do it for you. With my shoe.” He isn’t much taller than me since I’m five nine.
“If you touch my dog, I will cut your d-”
“Hey hey. Alright, let’s all just calm down.” I look down and see Mr. Perfect is touching my arm. When I look back up, he releases it quickly.
“My friend had a rough morning. He’s just blowing some steam off, and he’s not a fan of small dogs.”
“Ya, well, I’m not a fan of assholes with small dicks. Can I kick him in the balls too?”
A faint tip of his lips curls upward, and I know he’s fighting back a laugh. “Can you please get your dog so we can go inside?” Mr Perfect says.
“Please,” another guy says, “I don’t fuck around with those small dogs they are the one’s that will bite at your ankle. Ask my nana. She saw me get run down by one, one time.”
